


Leave a Message

by MaddieStilinski



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek Feels, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Prompt Fic, Sad, The Suicide Room, Triggers, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, Tumblr Prompt, based on a movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 02:09:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1840438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaddieStilinski/pseuds/MaddieStilinski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>‘Hi! This is Stiles. Leave a message after the beep.’<i></i></i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leave a Message

**Author's Note:**

> This is very different to the things I usually write. It's taken me a long time to get anything down, because I didn't want to offend anyone or be insensitive. It's a heavy topic, and admittedly, I found it _really _hard to write. I hope it translates how I want it to.__
> 
>   _  
>  _This is based on the movie "The Suicide Room" which you can watch on YouTube. It's not entirely the same, but there are similarities, so I hope you notice them. Rated 'Mature' for the topic. Thank you to[Shadowhunter_18](http://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowhunter_18/pseuds/shadowhunter_18) for the prompt. Hope you like it :)  
>  _  
>  _Let me know what you think in the comments! Enjoy :)____  
> 

Stiles counts the pills as they fall into the toilet.

_One… two… three… four… five…_

He follows the ripples they make as they break the surface and slowly sink to the bottom, his heart steady with the water as the last pill settles against the others.

He tips the bottle again, and this time his hands are still, weighing the white tablets in his palm before discarding them.

 

_One… two… three… four…_

He stops, catches the last one before it falls, lets it roll through his fingers slowly, deliberately, wandering how much damage he can really do with just one little pill.

Stiles lifts it to his lips, holds his breath as he swallows it dry, wincing as it slides down his throat. It’s bad, but nothing compared to the permanent lump he has there anyway, the aching pain that never seems to go away.

 

Another handful down. The water’s turning white as they dissolve, fizzing and bubbling to the surface.

Stiles has to look away. The constant movement makes him dizzy.

_One…two…three_

 

The pills go down easier this time. He doesn’t have to wince as they stick in his throat.

He's calm. Calmer than he’s been in months, _years_ even. He stares inquisitively down at the bottle in his hand, shakes it gently in front of his face so he can see how many he has left. Only a couple of handfuls by the looks of it.

 

_One… two…_

There’s no sound when the pills hit the water this time, or if there is, Stiles can’t hear hear it. There’s only a gentle buzzing in his ears, white noise drowning everything else out.

Stiles presses a hand over his heart, feels it tick feebly beneath his fingers. He’s so calm. He hasn’t felt like this in years. Hasn’t felt so in control of anything before. He didn’t realise he could feel like this; like he’s floating, dreaming, suspended. He didn’t know it was possible to be so at peace.

 

_One…_

He sobs, sinks to the floor, buries his face in his hands. Because something’s pushing through his calm, ripping the surface, breaking the seal. A promise he knows he can never keep. A face he never wants to forget.

He sucks in three breaths, the air pulling heavily on his lungs.

Another sob.

Only one handful left.

 

…

Stiles closes his eyes as the world starts to blur; colours mixing in a wash of distorted lines and edges.

He counts to three, letting the sound of his own imagined voice echo in his head. Somehow, it still sounds like someone else. Someone who knows how to get his heart racing, how to bring him down afterwards. Someone significant, special, constant.

 

Briefly, his mind wanders to thoughts of fireflies; the sound of their wings, the way he only sees them at night.

He goes to a place filled with fireflies, to where he can be inquisitive, brave, sensible, strong. To where he can ask why they fly, where they come from. Why they glow and glow and never… seem… to stop.

 

*

 

Derek’s doorbell rings just after ten am. He tries to ignore the crushing ache in his chest when it’s a single chime and not one of Stiles’ usual musical renditions.

He checks his phone one last time, eyes lingering over the last text he’d received at two am, almost two days ago.

_‘I’m sorry I couldn’t make it tonight. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. Love you.’_

 

Derek’s hand quivers as it reaches for the handle, shoulders tense as he opens the door.

Sheriff Stilinski looks wrecked, tired, broken, grieving. Derek could go on for hours about the amount of things the man looks, starting with his bed-matted hair and ending with the bloodied fist that looks like it lost a battle with a brick wall. Three days ago, he probably would have done. But today none of it will collaborate, no words come to mind.

John’s eyes flicker to Derek’s and it feels like he’s been punched in the gut. Because he’s been here before. He knows what follows, is used to the winded feeling as he struggles to breathe. The eyes that seem to say _‘sorry’_ and _‘please’_ all at once. He knows it all. This isn’t the first time someone’s looked at him like that.

 

‘Can I come in?’ he finally chokes out, pointing at the house.

Derek nods, leads him into the room to the left of the hall, gestures for him to sit down.

He keeps his back turned for a moment, biting his lip. Then he manages to murmur, ’When did he-‘

Derek cuts himself off, eyes glued to the blank screen of his phone. The frustration he’d felt for the last two days seems so insignificant, so _stupid_. Right now, he just wishes he had someone to be frustrated at.

He squeezes his eyes shut, as if losing his sight might compensate for the gaping hole opening up in his chest. It’s empty, infinite, like having both his legs amputated. Derek doesn’t know how he’s supposed to stand without them.

‘Two days ago,’ John mutters. ‘I was on a night shift at the station.’

‘Was it an accident?’

 

Somehow Derek musters the courage to stare John straight in the face. His eyes are swimming when he replies, and Derek regrets asking almost at once.

‘It…’ he starts, sighing heavily into his hands. ‘It doesn’t look like it, no.’

The chasm in Derek’s chest opens a little further.

 

‘I have to ask,’ John continues, his voice heavy. ‘Did… did you know anything? Did he ever mention-?’

‘No,’ Derek says, shaking his head. ‘No, he… he never said a thing.’

‘Didn’t think he would,’ John says, rubbing a hand over his face. ‘Well, err, the funeral… it’s next week. I’ll send you the details.’

‘Thanks.’

 

John pauses before he leaves, pulls something from his bag and puts it down on the table. Derek stares at the jar standing upright on the polished wood, at the thing flying lazily inside.

‘A firefly?’ Derek chokes out, his brow creasing in confusion.

‘He left two,’ John says, offering a small smile. ‘We used to go and watch them as a family before his mother died.’

Somehow Derek forces a laugh that sound more like a sob, returning the smile, blinking back tears.

‘That’s what we were supposed to do the night he…’

 

Derek has to stop. It’s too much to remember the promise Stiles can never keep. John seems to understand. Without another word, he taps the lid of the jar gently, nods at him, then leaves.

Derek doesn’t follow him.

 

Two hours later, Derek sits in the ruins of their destroyed living room, sobbing, clutching the jar containing Stiles’ last promise to his chest. He wishes he could get the smell of him out of the furniture, his clothes, the cushions he’d found in his old room. He wishes he could get the memory of their last kiss out of his head; the way their lips had dragged across skin, the way Stiles had nuzzled gently into his neck.

He wishes he could forget every stupid memory of Stiles, of their time together, of the dreams they’d made together. He wishes he could shout, scream, beat the living crap out of him for leaving, for _promising_ that they’d be together. For making Derek feel whole for the first time in years.

But as he curls in on himself, all he wants is to feel Stiles beside him, rubbing the back of his hand with his thumb, whispering _‘I love you,’_ into his neck. He wants to hear his voice. He _needs_ to hear it.

 

Slowly, he pulls his phone from the broken remains of their coffee table and dials his number, waiting for it to cut to voicemail before he closes his eyes and imagines him there, curled up with him in their wrecked living room, his heart calm and steady against Derek’s empty palm.

_‘Hi! This is Stiles. Leave a message after the beep.’_

**Author's Note:**

> [Samaritains UK](http://www.samaritans.org%0A)
> 
> [Samaritains USA](http://www.samaritansusa.org/contact.php%0A)
> 
>    
> If you want me to write you anything, leave a message on my [Tumblr](http://sourwolfsam.tumblr.com)


End file.
